


Kushiel's Drabbles

by Lleurai



Category: Kushiel's Legacy - Jacqueline Carey
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-22
Updated: 2015-10-22
Packaged: 2018-04-27 12:18:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5048275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lleurai/pseuds/Lleurai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>quick glimpses into different relationships in Terre d'Ange</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Token Affection

Melisande, standing at the mirror, stamped her bare foot.

Delaunay bit back a grin. "Need some help, my dear?"

She whirled, startled, then smiled ruefully. "I can't seem to work this clasp properly." From her fingers hung a delicate gold chain and the key-shaped charm he had given her only days ago.

"Here, let me." He gathered her hair to one side, enjoying its silken weight, then settled the necklace against her smooth skin. He gave in to temptation and planted a light kiss just above her shoulder. Their eyes met in the mirror, amber and blue, both coolly amused. She smiled.

"Your turn to put something around my neck, I suppose."


	2. Family

Cat-foot quiet, Mavros slid her door open. Just as he expected, his cousin was reading in front of the fire. She didn’t look up, but he knew she heard him, so he shut the door and settled himself in the armchair across from her. “How are you liking Montreve, Ros?”

She sighed and shut her book. He was clearly in one of _those_ moods. “It’s peaceful. People here are nice.” She looked up and smiled. “I bet _you_ hate it, cousin.”

Mavros clapped a hand to his chest with a wounded look. “Is it so wrong to be bored? I haven’t scandalized anyone since we arrived. I haven’t seduced so much as a willing stablemaid!”

“Nor any stable _lads_?” she murmured.

Mavros threw a pillow at her.


	3. Year of Service

He leaves the City when she does, but he doesn't follow her. He waits at a temple to Naamah near Kusheth's border with Namarre. He stables his horse and eats simple dinners with the priests and priestess for almost two weeks. No one asks why he is there, in a small country temple, taking long walks and spending hours in prayer.  
  
She arrives near sunset and for a moment he thinks the sun is caught in her hair. It gleams as she comes in for dinner. He ducks back through the doorway, glad she hasn't seen him; he will wait. He can wait.   
  
He makes it two hours; dinner is over and the lamps are banked as he sneaks, cat-foot quiet, down the hall to her room. She kneels before a small table, incense burning; her back is to him. At his touch, she twitches, but only barely. He lets her turn her head, and he draws her to her feet.   
  
"You want this."

"You know I do."

"...You know what I am bound to, for this year."

"Why do you think I'm here?"

She smiles, bright and unexpected, and kisses his cheek. His skin feels too tight; it itches and burns. He reaches for her, and she steps into his arms. He doesn't know if it is triumph or desire or possessiveness flaring through him, and as she brushes against his breeches, he finds he doesn't care.


	4. Memories

I blinked, and the petals falling onto her hair were different; the grass and trees were dusty streets; the lilting D'Angeline accents were harsh Carthaginian voices.

I shook my head and bolstered my wavering smile. This was our day, our perfect, long-awaited day. We had earned it. No one questioned us anymore; no one doubted our faith. Our love.

I held out my hands, and she took them, standing on tiptoe to kiss me in front of everyone. And, Elua bless them, they cheered for us and threw flowers. Petals like the falling rain.

That night, I traced the golden lines on her back over and over. A sun, not a scar. A sun. I kissed the center. She murmured in her sleep. My Sun Princess. My sun.


	5. Allegiances

A half-day of hunting with Thierry and his obstreperous cousin. A half-day of dark undertones to innocent remarks, of sapphire sparks beneath sooty lashes, of sidelong glances. Moirin’s blood was near to boiling.

She wandered in the garden, taking in the scents of foreign flowers, until she rounded a corner and saw him leaning against an apple tree. She offered her hands as if in greeting, as if in a dream; Balthasar clasped her wrists and pulled her forward until their lips met.

She pulled back, gasping. Bronze wings flickered at the edges of her vision. “Do you serve the bright lady, too?”

Balthasar smiled, and there was nothing sweet or bright in it. “Everyone gives Naamah her due, but no. My family serves a different lord.”


End file.
